Page 104 of Not That Ridiculous

Chipping Fairford was an adorable little Cotswolds town full of honey-coloured stone houses that looked fantastic on Instagram, it was surrounded by a countryside full of picturesque and well-marked walking routes, and it was far enough from London to make it seem like a different world while still being under two hours by car or one hour by train.

This meant that The Chipped Cup had a heavy influx of weekend tourists, and I had a truly staggering number of conversations with annoyed customers who wanted to know if I wassureI didn’t do brunch? Not even Eggs Benedict? They’d even take a smoked salmon on wholewheat toast if that was all I offered.

ButsurelyI did brunch. Didn’t I?

I offered exactly what was written up on the chalkboard behind my head, and that was it.

I was well aware that I could make a killing at the weekends if I added brunch to the menu, but it wasn’t as easy as the people who tried to argue me into it seemed to think. It required a complete revamp of my business model and kitchen. There were health and safety regulations to comply with, cooking and serving hot meals on the premises was wildly different from plating up the fresh pastries Nadia from the bakery across town delivered each morning, and by the end of the average Sunday, I almost always had a tension headache from gritting my teeth in an effort to stay polite.

The morning after I slept with Kevin, however, I got started on my tension headache bright and early.

By nine o’clock, I gave in and popped a couple of aspirin. This thrilled Pippa, who was convinced that I was nursing a hangover, which to her mind which constituted evidence of a life outside work.

It kind of felt like one, except no hangover I’d ever had before had included a sore arsehole and hip flexors that kept threatening to give out and drop me to the floor at any moment.

The source of the tension headache was, of course, the same source of the complaining hip flexors.

Kevin.

I’d left him in bed that morning, and it had been one of the hardest things I’d had to do in my life.

Based on his boundless energy during the day and his rampant sex drive, I’d expected him to be one of those obnoxious morning people who had a complicated routine involving things like pushups, protein shakes, and a dozen raw eggs, all before dawn.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I’d woken at the ungodly hour of five o’clock—as my body clock was trained to do, Sunday or not—and lay there blearily staring at the ceiling, wondering why I felt like a wrung-out dishcloth and why I was so incredibly aware of my arse.

The weight of Kevin’s arm resting over my waist and his thigh slung over mine gave me a visceral, wonderful reminder. Possibly for the first time ever before I’d had a coffee, I smiled.

It was light enough in the pre-dawn for me to see that his face was flushed with sleep, his cheeks pink and mouth all rosy and soft. I wanted to kiss him quite desperately. If our positions had been reversed, I was confident that Kevin would have had no problem whatsoever waking me up with a tongue in my mouth, but I was still a bit shaky on sexual protocol. I decided to err on the side of caution, and kept my lips to myself.

His dark-blond hair stuck up all over the place and he must have sensed me watching him because his eyes very slowly blinked open. He was adorable. It took at least three blinks before he managed to focus on me. One corner of his mouth hitched up in a sleepy smile and the arm around my waist flexed, drawing me closer.

“Morning,” I whispered.

“Muh.” His eyes closed again.

I reached out and touched his cheek because I couldn’t help it. It was warm and delightful and his stubble rasped against my palm, making me shiver. He kept his eyes closed but puckered up. I obliged and dropped a quick kiss on his mouth.

He drifted back into sleep. I could have done the same. I didn’t technically have to get up until six. I’d long since tweaked my routine to maximise my time in bed, and I had it down to a fine art.

I could roll out of bed, take a five-minute shower, brush my teeth and change in another five minutes, scoot a grumbling Phil outside for his morning bits and pieces, and be leaving the house, ready for a full day of work, within half an hour of getting out of bed.

There was no way I was falling back asleep today, though.

Kevin’s warm, solid presence in my bed was too novel and wonderful. I basked in it, drawing the moment out as long as I could before I was wide awake.

Then all the basking just felt weird.

Just because everything felt different physically (my arse) and emotionally (my heart) it didn’t mean I had the time to moon about and sigh over it.

I slipped out, leaving him to sleep, and got on with my day.

I drank my first coffee on the patio outside in the dim light, watching Phil do his rounds. He checked the fence and snuffled around on the lawn with his nose to the grass as he followed the invisible trails left by passing night visitors. I took my second coffee into the bathroom with me and set it on the windowsill while I showered, trying not to get distracted with memories of Kevin in here with me the night before.

It was hard not to.

I kept getting flashes of Kevin’s body sliding against me, his voice low and his chest rumbling against my back, his long soapy fingers?—

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